


Frozen

by qrantaire (rivenjolras)



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M, Missing Scene, Mourning, unnamed sole survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivenjolras/pseuds/qrantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could have brought anyone here. Preston is comfort, Piper is grace. Deacon is all rough edges and spikes and everything that’s wrong with this fucked up world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frozen

**Author's Note:**

> Deacon cannot be wholly unaffected by seeing his best friend's husband/wife. I imagine he just doesn't know what to say, really. This was written as sort of an "explanation" for his lack of comment- so unlike him in-game.

Deacon’s got all the intel. He knows this is the vault that kept his best-friend-come-whatever-they-currently-are safe for 200 years. Well, safety is all relative anyway. The cryopods are now coffins- except for the few very conspicuously vacant. One of them is standing open and empty- and Deacon knows it to be his. He stares at the back of the sole survivor’s vault suit- looking for some sort of reaction. Forward, step, step. His posture isn’t relaxed, but he’s doing well, all things considered.

He stops in front of one pod, directly across from his. Deacon sucks in a breath.

Deacon knew, of course, about her- intel, intel is his thing. He knew she was here. But for all the information he has, it doesn’t prepare him for actually seeing her. The ghost that haunts their relationship, haunts _him_ , in the flesh. She’s as pretty as a picture, all curves and softness, in permanent stasis. Deacon wonders how long a body can last in one of these things. Certainly, much longer than his out in the Commonwealth. Deacon has a mad idea of climbing into one of these, immortalized forever. Time would not change him, or his image. He’s not sure this is exactly what Proust meant, but the man is a rotten collection of bones. All that’s left of him on this earth are words with no meaning in Pre-War novels, collecting dust underneath collapsed bookcases. Somewhere right now, Proust is burning to keep someone warm.

Deacon is standing much too close to the man in mourning. Mourning his _wife_. Christ. Deacon knows he should say something, anything. Or maybe not. Deacon remembers his other life, remembers staring down at the ground that swallowed his love whole. The birds didn’t stop singing. The earth didn’t stop moving. Everything was too loud, too much. 

Deacon tests a few words on his tongue. He read something comforting, somewhere, probably. But everything he can think of is too heavy, or too light. He says nothing.

Long moments pass before the other man breaks the silence.

“Sometimes I wish it were me.” 

“I don’t.” Deacon replies automatically. God, that wasn’t the right thing to say at all.

The man turns to look at him, and smiles softly. “I know.” Deacon is suddenly overwhelmed with gratefulness for his best friend’s forgiving nature. He could have brought anyone here. Preston is comfort, Piper is grace. Deacon is all rough edges and spikes and everything that’s wrong with this fucked up world.

He presses his hand into Deacon’s and squeezes, as if he were the one who needed to be grounded. Deacon squeezes back, and swallows the lump in his throat. He doesn't deserve him. 

They exit the vault, and Deacon feels himself thaw.


End file.
